


Still Warm, Still Warm

by tsauergrass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beekeeper Draco, Beekeeping, Bees, Courtship, Draco Malfoy bakes cookies at three a.m., Getting Together, Insomnia, Living Together, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Roommates, beekeeper Harry, but together it cancels out so it’s fine, oh my god they were roommates, sprinkled with a teeny bit of angst for seasoning, they’re both kind of oblivious and kind of idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29875233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsauergrass/pseuds/tsauergrass
Summary: The oranges ripened and grew heavy; the branches dipped under their weight. They picked some for breakfast every morning: Harry twisting the fruit off with a snap, Draco carefully tugging each one off.Harry peeled an orange and handed a wedge to Draco.Their fingers grazed, and Draco took it. The tender flesh; if he pressed just a little harder with his fingers, it would burst into a juicy mess.Harry is up to something. Why else would he keep giving Draco presents?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 15
Kudos: 153





	Still Warm, Still Warm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cibee (Cibeeeee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cibeeeee/gifts).



> Dear Cibee, Happy Birthday! You are such a gem. You write the funniest dialogues. Your stories are always suffused with this warmth and sprinkled with hilarity. Witch of emotion and humor, tell us the recipe for your concoctions! I am so happy to have met you and I wish you a very very happy day, and a very very happy year!
> 
> This fic is inspired by The Courting by the Pureblood Who Only Has Five Milligrams of Romance Intelligence and Thinks He’s Real Smooth, by the one and only Cibee herself. Title taken from On a Train by Wendy Cope.
> 
> Huge thank you to April-thelightfury115 for Brit-picking, editing, leaving many lovely comments, and being endlessly patient.

Harry came back on an ordinary August evening. Dusk had settled, purples and pinks blooming along the skyline; Draco had opened the windows, and the wind billowed past the pulled curtains and into the house, balmy air tinted with the sweetness of meadow grasses. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, had buried his nose in the notes spilling all over the table. Was chewing the end of his quill, ink smeared on his wrist, trying to decide which heather field to bring their bees to when the door opened and Harry stepped in, wind-swept and tousled.

“Hello,” Harry said.

Without looking up, Draco said, “Didn’t the bees like Bridgerton’s farms better last year?” 

“Did they?” Harry shucked off his trainers and walked towards the kitchen. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not one of them.”

“Didn’t you haul all the hives back onto the truck? Weren’t they much heavier with honey than all the previous years?”

“They’re always heavy. And my arms stop feeling anything after the third hive. So.”

Draco sniffed. Harry came back with a mug of tea in his hand. Draco had made it this afternoon, had timed it so the tea would be just warm by now. He’d made it with chamomile because he knew Harry was coming back, after a long journey.

“Hello,” Draco said. Harry laughed into the mug.

“Hi,” he said. Then, digging into his pockets, “Did you miss me? I brought you something back from Belgium.”

“A souvenir?” Draco perked up, hopeful—then, fearful, “Oh no, no, no, don’t tell me you brought the honey dipper from the European Beekeeper’s Convention—"

Harry tossed a small box to Draco, who caught it reflexively.

“Chocolates!” Delighted. Then, his face paling, “Grands Crus from Pierre Marcolini.”

“Is that how it’s pronounced?”

“They cost sixty Galleons a box.”

“Ah, you know the market.”

“Sixty Galleons.”

“They’re horribly famous,” Harry said, by way of explanation. He took a sip of his tea. Draco carefully held the tiny, delicate box with his fingers; then, not trusting his hands to be steady, carefully placed the tiny, delicate box on the table.

“So,” Harry said, hiding his face behind the mug, “Bridgerton’s heather fields?”

*

They owned fourteen hives, a handful of potted orange trees, and a little house on the rolling hills of Derbyshire. In the little house they each owned their separate bedrooms, which they each had decorated separately.

They owned, together: the chipped teapot in the kitchen, the small, antique table lamp in the living room, the gramophone—which Harry brought from Grimmauld place, but said it belonged to the both of them. Harry was good with the bees. He walked among the beehives with simply a head veil; the bees climbed on and off his bare hands, let him gently brush them off. His hands were sure; his arms steady. His fingers held still as the bees crawled over his palms, his knuckles, the back of his hands.

Draco still donned a full suit every time he walked through the beehives, which he felt humiliated by, even if Harry never said anything. His fingers trembled. The bees never minded his wobbly hands. They climbed on and off his thickly-gloved palms, through the gaps between his fingers, thin, intricate wings buzzing with each tiny step.

*

They drove to Bridgerton’s heather fields before dawn. The night lingered in blues and purples; the air was cool and sweet with mist and dew. Harry rested his elbow on the open truck window as he drove. The wind ruffled his hair. A small smile on his lips, he closed his eyes for a brief second.

The truck jostled over a dent in the road. Draco clutched the handle, his knuckles white.

Harry opened his eyes. He drove much more slowly, after that.

They arrived just as the sun rose, the first golden beams spilling behind the hills. They hauled the beehives off the back of the truck. The sun inched across the fields, and the bees slowly awoke; by the time they were near finished, the world had brightened. Draco stood by the edge of the fields as Harry finished up. The heather rippled under the cool wind of the Scottish Highlands, a boundless sea of pinks and purples tipping under the tender blue sky, stretching over the edge of the hills.

Harry came up beside him, breath heavy. He was smiling.

“Do you think the bees appreciate the scenery?” Draco asked.

“No idea,” Harry said. “I appreciate it, though.”

The wind ruffled their hair. Draco closed his eyes, smiling, too. The cool wind gushed through his shirt, soft linen billowing against his skin.

A calloused fingertip at the shell of his ear. Draco’s eyes flew open. Harry was close—closer than he was before, his cheeks flushed. He had tucked something behind Draco’s ear. Draco reached for it. It was a thin sprig of blooming heather.

“You’re pretty,” Harry said.

“And you are a shameless flirt,” Draco said, stunned, his face flooding with heat. He stumbled back. “Next time you’ll plant a kiss on my mouth when I’m not paying attention.”

“Oh, I won’t. I’ll be proper. I’ll follow all the etiquette.”

“Yes, right, like that’s happening. You wipe your mouth with your hand!”

“I promise,” Harry said, grinning. He flopped onto the ground, folded his arms under his head. Draco sat down, too, wary—then slowly relaxing, watching the heather fields roll under the winds, a thousand shades of a single color, regal and vibrant and tender all at once.

*

Draco paced his room when he couldn’t sleep.

He made lists in his head, trying to ground himself. The things he needed to do: buy new terracotta pots, check on the orange trees, another round of hive inspections. Buy glass jars for the honey harvest. Buy tea. Sleep; sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep. He paced back and forth, barefoot on the herringbone-patterned wooden floor. The colors in his room: the buttery yellow of the walls. The varnished brown of the wardrobe, with a tint of copper red. The crisp white of his duvets, the dark green of his mug—the myriad of colors on his mug: the white petals and yellow crown of the narcissus, the pale green of the stem, the boney black of the veins on the leaves. Their house, their fourteen beehives and five hundred thousand bees, the chipped teapot in the kitchen, the gilded antique lamp, the gramophone that belonged to Harry’s Grimmauld Place but now he said belonged to them both. Harry. Were they roommates, friends, companions, ex-arch-nemesis who slashed each other open and saved each other from Fiendfyres and now raised bees together?

Draco was fervently making a list of evidence for each category when Harry opened the door and peeked in. His hair was tousled, fresh sleep marks pink and tender on his cheek.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

Harry found him, sometimes, when he paced about in the dead of the night.

“No,” Draco said. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, no. Come.”

Harry took him to the kitchen, had him sit down, and heated milk for him. Draco picked his thumb, head hung low. Harry stirred spoons of honey into the warm milk and handed the mug to Draco.

“It helps, I heard.”

“Thank you,” Draco said.

Harry played some soft music on the gramophone. They sat, the music adrift around them. Draco held the mug close to himself; warmth soaked through his fingers. They didn’t tremble, then.

*

The temperature dropped as autumn seeped in, and they moved the potted orange trees indoors. They placed them by the French windows in the living room. It was a bright, chilly day; sunlight flooded through the large glass panes, bathed the orange trees in honey-gold—the crisp white petals dusted golden, hints of bright orange amidst dark, waxy leaves.

Draco cooked chicken with pesto sauce for dinner. Harry grinned when he saw. It was his favorite.

“Pesto chicken!” he said.

“Chicken with pesto sauce,” Draco muttered.

They ate, the house warm and bright in the cold night. Half-way through the meal, Harry fetched a parcel from his bedroom.

“For you,” he said. Draco took it, guarded.

“Why?”

“Just open it.”

Draco unwrapped the paper. Soft wool pooled into his hands: a cashmere sweater, warm and light and mustard-yellow.

Draco blinked.

“Did it cost you three hundred Galleons this time?”

Harry shrugged. Draco clutched the sweater.

“Don’t you need a new sweater?” Harry asked.

“Why on earth do I need a new sweater?”

“Your old sweaters make your skin all itchy. I heard—I heard this is better. Cashmere, I mean.”

Draco’s mouth opened, and then closed.

“Why on earth are you paying attention to my skin condition?”

Harry laughed. Then he looked at Draco, a little anxious.

“Do you like it?”

“I can’t take it,” Draco said. He loved it. His fingers couldn’t seem to leave the wool.

“Of course you can,” Harry said, firmly, and the matter was settled.

*

Three in the morning. Draco paced his room fifteen times, boiled tea twice, washed his face four times before he finally decided to bake cookies.

Harry came out, bleary-eyed, just as Draco was about to put the trays into the oven. He blinked. Draco flushed. He had flour smeared across his cheeks, had cookie dough clotted on his apron.

Harry asked, voice thick with sleep, “What cookies are you baking?”

Draco blinked.

“Chocolate chip,” he said. Harry nodded.

“Give me some when you’re done?”

“Yes, I mean, sure.”

Harry nodded again, then shuffled to the living room. Draco pushed the trays into the oven, set the timer, and anxiously followed him into the living room, too. Harry had curled on the couch, was yawning. Draco hovered close.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked.

Harry thought about it, then shrugged. Draco went and fetched a blanket and draped it over Harry. Harry curled himself into a blanket-covered ball.

“I woke you up,” Draco said.

“Only a little.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It won’t,” Harry said, yawning again, “not until we have the chocolate chip cookies.”

He fell asleep minutes later, head tilted against the back of the couch. Draco chewed his lip. He fetched another blanket, a quilt, and, still worried that Harry might catch a cold, fetched Harry’s duvet from his bedroom—wrapped Harry tightly inside the layers. Harry slept like a baby through it all. Draco fetched a cushion, carefully lifted Harry’s head and pushed it under so Harry wouldn’t wake up with a sore neck. Harry made a soft noise and drifted back to sleep.

The timer tinkled. Draco took out the warm, freshly-baked cookies, let them sit for a while, and stored them into glass jars. He hovered by the living room, chewing his lip. Then he fetched his own duvet and pillow from his bedroom, curled on the couch, and fell asleep beside Harry.

*

He woke up early on the day he was to extract honey. Warmed some bread rolls, had a glass of milk; checked the orange trees. They sat quietly in the morning light, the oranges burgeoning on the thin branches.

He worked in the little shed built adjacent to their house. It was thin and wooden, embedded with a framed window and extensive, intricate heating charms, the air swelling with warmth. He set out the equipment, methodical and simple: the extractor, the long bread knife, the buckets. He murmured the spells, words softly spoken into the golden sun slanting across the thin space, over the drifting dust motes.

Then he took a frame from the pile.

It was capped with wax, heavy with honey. Draco set it over a bucket and, slowly, precisely, slid the knife across the frame—uncapping the wax, revealing the amber-golden honey underneath. He pushed the knife downward, back and forth. The layer of wax capping curled backwards onto itself—the honey brimming, pouring out of the frame—and the wax came off, dropped into the bucket. Left only with the frame full of honey, liquid gold aglow in the warm sun.

Carefully, Draco uncapped the other side of the frame and placed it into the extractor. The next frame; the slice smooth and precise. The amber honey caught the sunlight and glowed golden as it overflowed and poured out of the cells. He filled the spaces in the extractor, and, with a flick of his wand, it started spinning. Draco took another frame. In the little shed, a series of motions were activated: the extractor spinning and then slowing, the frames lifting themselves and flipping sides; the honey pouring out from below and into another bucket; the bucket lifting itself and pouring its contents into a sifter. Draco took out another frame. Another slice, the stroke clean. His hands didn’t tremble; his fingers didn’t shake. In the steadiness of his arms was the ghost of his old-self, a semblance to the certainty, the elegance, the way with which he once held himself, arrogant and careless and sure. Every step taken without doubt, so certain was he of his footing.

The bucket of sifted honey poured itself into the glass jars and filled them to the brim. Draco uncapped another heavy frame. Time did not exist in the warm, little shed, and when he lifted his head and noticed Harry standing by the doorframe—only then, did he notice the sun already setting.

“You are horrible,” Draco said, bending down again to finish this frame. “You’ve no respect for privacy. How long have you been watching?”

“Not that long,” Harry said, warmly. He walked over. “It smells sweet in here.”

“I’ve no idea why.”

Harry laughed. Warmth lined his face, lined the crinkles at the corner of his eyes and the folds of his cheeks—the same warmth in Harry’s eyes whenever he teased him about that night, Draco dismantling his bed and bringing the parts to the living room to sleep next to Harry on the couch. Draco had always grumbled in response. Now, however, it made him warm, too, made him want to smile back.

“Are you going to help?” Draco asked.

“No,” Harry said. “I’m here to fetch you away from work, actually.”

“That is not happening.”

“Come on, it’s time for cuppa.”

Draco let himself be persuaded and led back to their little house, their kitchen. Harry made tea, placed some chocolate chip cookies on the plate. In the middle of eating, Harry took out an earring: small and intricate, an emerald with a golden frieze, baroque-style. Draco flushed. He let Harry fix it to his ear. When he leant back, Harry was flushed, too, cheeks ruddy in the honey-gold of the setting sun.

*

Harry was up to something.

Evidence: he kept giving Draco presents.

A list of possible reasons:

It was some obscure holiday that Draco didn’t know of which went on for months.

He was making up for not giving Draco birthday gifts for the first twenty years of their lives.

He was conducting an experiment concerning bird courtship rituals for Granger.

He was hinting to Draco at what he wanted for Christmas by dropping Draco gifts.

He thought Draco was the head of a military coup that wanted to overthrow the Ministry, so he gave Draco gifts to lower his defenses and tease the secrets out of his mouth.

He wasn’t the head of a military coup, Draco didn’t think. He wasn’t so sure now. He had been pacing the room for hours, in the middle of the day, and he had gotten ink everywhere, spilled over the parchment and splattered over the duvets—he’d cried out—ink dripping onto the wooden floor, staining his feet and smeared all over the place with his messy steps. The parchment with the list of reasons was crumpled in his sweaty hands.

Harry had gone out inspecting the beehives. He wouldn’t be back for hours.

He Firecalled Pansy.

Pansy was lounging on a stool by her kitchen bar, a martini in hand. She was still in her dressing gown even though it was already midday, but even so, she was sexy and elegant in a careless way.

Draco wondered, sometimes, how she grew to be graceful while he grew to have trembling hands.

“Draco, darling!” Pansy said. “Are you coming over? We’ll discuss Harry’s arse over martinis. I’ll make you some.”

“Harry’s up to something,” Draco said.

“Of course he is. Do spill.”

Draco did, explaining his list in the cool, green flames. Words tumbled out of his mouth and looped all around, and Draco realised he was talking in circles.

“So—so I don’t know, I mean, I know that it’s—but why would he—”

“Maybe he has too much money and wants to throw them around,” Pansy said.

“Yes, yes—”

“Or perhaps he wants you out of the house.”

“He wants me out of the house,” Draco repeated, stomach cold and numb with dread.

“Breathe, darling. I’m just joking.” Pansy took a sip of her martini and leaned forward. Her gaze was sharp, but kind. “Draco. Consider this: maybe Harry is a nice person, and he just wants to give you gifts.”

*

The oranges ripened and grew heavy; the branches dipped under their weight. They picked some for breakfast every morning: Harry twisting the fruit off with a snap, Draco carefully tugging each one off.

Harry peeled an orange and handed a wedge to Draco.

Their fingers grazed, and Draco took it. The tender flesh; if he pressed just a little harder with his fingers, it would burst into a juicy mess.

Harry took a wedge himself and threw it into his mouth.

Draco stared at the piece of fruit.

_Perhaps he wants you out of the house._

“Draco?” Harry asked, frowning. “Are you alright?”

Draco opened his mouth, closed it. His stomach churned with dull fear.

Throat dry, he asked, “Do you want me out of the house?”

“No,” Harry said immediately, straightening. “No, why do you think so?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I don’t want you out of the house, Draco.”

“Okay.”

“I want you _inside_ the house. Are you—are you thinking of…do _you_ want to leave?”

“No,” Draco said, quickly and quietly. Harry looked at him, careful.

“Alright,” he said.

Draco nodded. He put the wedge of orange into his mouth; the fruit burst into juice on the tip of his tongue, bright and sweet and sour. The dull, swelling ache in his stomach began to soften, as though soothed.

Harry handed him another wedge of orange. Draco took it.

*

“Harry. Harry.”

He watched Harry blink himself awake in the dark, still bleary. Watched Harry’s eyes settle on him, register, and recognise.

“Draco?”

“Come, come.”

Harry pushed himself up with a groan, kicking off the duvets. “What time is it?”

“Just come.”

Draco led him through the living room, up the stairs to the attic, and—pushing open the tiny door—to the roof. Chilly air gushed through Draco’s clothes, and he hugged himself. In the corner of his eyes, he caught Harry shivering and cast a warming charm around him.

“Look,” Draco said.

The moon, round and full and bright, hung low on the clear night sky.

They seemed so small on the rooftop—the hills stretched boundless underneath them, rolling and fading into the horizon. The countryside was awash in silver: the bare branches of the trees, the meadows, the miniature farmhouses down the hills. Their beehives, tiny boxes on the far side of their garden. They were still buzzing faintly with activity inside, but in the silence of the night they seemed completely still, as though asleep, too, in the cradle of the moonlight.

He turned, and Harry was gone.

Draco bit his lip and tried not to notice the sharp tug in his chest.

_Harry wants me inside the house._

He sat down on the edge of the roof and dangled his feet midair. The chilly air stung his cheeks. He let out a breath; mist in the cold night, quickly dissipated.

Soft footsteps behind him. Draco turned. Harry was climbing onto the roof, walking over to him. Two thick duvets piled in his arms, half-hiding his face.

Draco tried not to notice the softness of relief, washing up inside him like gentle tides.

“I thought you went back to sleep.”

“It’s cold,” Harry said, draping Draco’s duvet over him. They wrapped themselves in the warmth of the duvets. Then they watched the moon together, their feet dangling off the edge of the roof.

*

It snowed on Christmas Eve. Draco wore the warm, mustard-yellow sweater and was in the kitchen, trying to make a floating snowman on hot chocolate with marshmallows and cinnamon sticks. Harry wore a baggy, old jumper and ambled around, playing ridiculous Christmas carols on the gramophone. George Weasley had given Harry a collection of those as Christmas presents as a joke three years ago. Draco secretly swore ever since to hex him every time he ran into him.

Harry ambled into the kitchen.

“Is that a snowman?” he asked, peeking over Draco’s shoulders. Draco tried to hide the hot chocolate with his height advantage of three centimeters.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about—”

“It is a snowman!” Cheeky. Then, “Hey, why is it only _you_ have a floating marshmallow snowman? I want a snowman, too!”

“Because I’ve been working on this for forty-five minutes now, trying to get it to float!”

“They’re marshmallows! They automatically float!”

“That’s not how it works!”

In the end Draco won, and he had Harry make them two cups of hot chocolate with floating marshmallow snowmen. Harry grumbled. Draco made up to Harry by making the mulled wine. They lounged by the hearth, baked themselves warm by the crackling fire, drinking the spiced wine in mugs. Draco’s cheeks were warm and fuzzy. His toes tingled. The firelight lapped on Harry’s face and messy hair and bathed his skin in warm gold.

“I’ve a present for you,” Harry said. Draco laughed.

“Not again?”

“You poor soul.” Harry laughed, too. “Indulge me?”

“But we mustn’t open our Christmas presents on Christmas Eve. It’s not tradition.”

“What is tradition, anyway?”

“According to Oxford English, tradition is, oh, _a belief, a custom, or way of doing something_ —”

Harry laughed, knocking into Draco’s shoulders. Draco grinned, tipsy and dazed.

“Indulge me,” Harry said again. He was smiling, looking into Draco’s eyes. “Please?”

Draco licked his lips.

“Alright.”

Harry gave him a small, exquisite box. Draco unwrapped the paper, lifted the lid.

Inside the black velvet lay a brooch. A sprig of orange blossoms, intricately molded: the pearly white petals, the golden stamen; the leaves, thinly beaten bronze. Pearls accented at the tip of the branch as flower buds.

Orange blossoms.

Draco felt himself coursing backwards through time. Several things clicked into place, slivers of memories blurred by speed: Harry pushing the parcel across the dining table, Harry leaning close to fix an earring to his ear, Harry hiding his face behind the mug of tea, saying, _So,_ _Bridgerton’s heather fields?_ —Harry, leaning against the door frame in the setting sun, in the golden amber of the little shed, in the reflected glow of the honey, walking close, his face warm with a smile—

“Draco?”

Draco snapped his head up. Harry was looking at him, tentative—hopeful.

“Do you like it?”

As though time fell and shattered. Draco pushed the brooch back into Harry’s arms, scrambling up—Harry’s eyes widened—and stumbled out of their warm little house, into the cold winter night.

*

He hugged his knees close to his chest.

He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, he didn’t think. Coldness seeped through his sweater and nestled against his skin, drained warmth from his body. He was crouching in a corner of their garden near the beehives. The hives were quiet, now, covered under heavy snow. If Draco listened, he thought he could hear the faint buzzing of activity inside: the worker bees fanning their wings together in a cluster to keep their queen warm, the center of the hive maintained at a steady 32 degree Celsius.

The faint crunching of snow under boots. Draco clutched his arms.

A warm hand at his shoulder, tentative.

“Hey,” Harry said, crouching beside him.

Draco said, “You found me.”

“I didn’t know whether you wanted me to.”

Draco didn’t reply. Harry cast a warming charm over him, and Draco shuddered as warmth washed over him. Harry wrapped a coat around his shoulders. Draco’s coat. He’d brought it with him.

Draco said, “You were courting me.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I—I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, I realised.”

Draco clutched his coat and lifted his eyes to look at Harry. His voice was small when he said, “You like me.”

Harry looked helpless. He reached out a hand—faltered—and, tentatively, touched Draco’s cheek.

“Draco,” Harry said. “I—I adore you.”

Draco let out a shaky breath.

“Even if it wasn’t to court you,” Harry swallowed, “even if it wasn’t—I would have given you all those gifts. They made you happy. I just wanted to see you happy. And you don’t have to—give me an answer, if you don’t want to. Whenever you’re ready—if you’re ever ready—I’ll always be, I’ll always—”

Draco leaned in and kissed Harry on the mouth.

Harry made a soft noise, then he kissed back—deeply, tenderly, as though Draco was something to be handled with care. Soft lips, hot breaths. His fingers trembled by Draco’s face, as though he was terrified—as though he was afraid to touch, as though he couldn’t be anything but delicate, the kiss slow with everything he poured in and laid bare.

“Harry,” Draco murmured, pulling back. “I adore you, too.”

Harry laughed quietly into the space between their mouths.

“This is all very different from what I imagined.”

“Oh?” Draco smiled, and, unable to stop himself, tilted his head to kiss Harry again. “What did you imagine?”

“Mm,” Harry said. Their mouths were so close. Harry kissed him again, lingered—their lips soft—and again, and again, murmuring into Draco’s mouth, “We’re in front of the hearth, all very warm and…mm…tipsy. I kiss you, and we…”

“And we?”

The words sank into silence as the kiss deepened.

It was alright, because later they kissed again in front of the hearth and Harry showed him, step by step.

*

“It’s alright,” Harry said slowly. “They like you.”

Draco cast a nervous glance towards him and quickly looked back at the bees. He wore only a veil. The bees climbed over his bare hands, their thin, intricate wings buzzing.

Late spring. The flowers were blossoming; the bees were busy, flying back and forth between the hives and the flowers, dancing to show each other where to collect nectar. Harry felt it every year deep in his bones: the world slowly awakening underneath his feet from the deep slumber of winter, letting out a final exhale as it stretched into and embraced the warmth in the air.

Beside him, Draco bit his lip. His fingers trembled slightly. Harry wanted to kiss him, wanted to pull him close and wrap him in his arm. Draco, who wanted to hold the bees barehand even though he was scared, even though it was perfectly fine to don a full bee suit. Draco, who came to Harry and said, quiet and terrified and determined, that he wanted to try.

“See?” Harry said lightly, to hide the thickness in his voice. “They like you.”

Draco glanced at him and smiled.

*

Just a couple minutes after Harry extinguished the lights and climbed into bed, Draco peeked into his bedroom.

“Hello,” Harry said.

“I, ah,” Draco said, “Can I sleep with you tonight? It’s just, I can’t. Can’t seem to stop, and I thought, maybe—”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Harry lifted the covers. “Come here.”

Draco shuffled into Harry’s bed. Harry pulled him close. They still slept in their separate bedrooms most of the time, out of habit. Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, and Draco curled up and tucked his face into the nook of Harry’s neck.

“Is this alright?” Harry whispered.

Draco nodded. Harry buried his nose in Draco’s hair and fell asleep. When he next woke up it was to the soft grey lights of early dawn, filtering in through the blinds. Draco was asleep. His hair looked softer than usual, tousled, and his cheeks were pink with sleep. His breathing was steady. It was rare to see Draco sleeping like this, peaceful and sound.

Harry stroked Draco’s arm and drifted back to sleep.

*

They were back at the heather fields. Harry finished setting up the last beehive and came to sit beside Draco, who had already taken off his boots and settled on the edge of the hills, barefoot. He was smiling, had closed his eyes and tipped his head back. His hair ruffled by the wind, his shirt billowing. He was bright against the tender blue sky, against the sea of heather, purple and pink rippling in the wind.

Draco said, eyes still closed, “The bees like it here, I think.”

“I think you like it here.”

Draco laughed. He plucked a sprig of heather and, flushing, tucked it behind Harry’s ear.

“And you?” he asked, eyes bright. “Do you like it here?”

“Yes,” Harry said, warm. He kissed Draco on the cheek. “I love it here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Experienced beekeepers might handle bees without wearing a full suit but, quite reasonably and obviously, for safety, many beekeepers still don a full bee suit especially when doing hive inspections.
> 
> This is a loose grasp on the art of beekeeping. I did some research and tried to depict it accurately, but if there are any inaccuracies you feel should be adjusted please let me know.


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